


The Incident at Mecklenburg

by HRJafael



Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew - Carolyn Keene
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HRJafael/pseuds/HRJafael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>AUTHOR'S NOTE</p><p>July 4, 2013 - River Heights University</p><p>When I first met Carolyn Keene, I had no idea who she was. I had been invited by my American Literature professor to attend a gala event at the main River Heights U. campus celebrating Independence Day. This American Literature professor had just made me endure a whole semester of dissecting stories and looking for this phantom ghost known as the "American Dream." I succeeded but only after coming to full appreciate what he had come to the college to teach. And since it was Independence Day, what better way to see the "American Dream" than it in celebratory action?</p><p>I had no idea that I would bump into a lady, perhaps thirty years my senior, in a pale mauve dress. I came to find out that her name was Carolyn Keene. Needless to say, I was shocked-the Carolyn Keene? The Carolyn Keene who had written over 100 novels featuring a teenage sleuth who I had come to love in my youth? It was her alright. Automatically my fascination grew. I found myself not paying attention to the fireworks but rather to the stories that this woman told. I have come to acknowledge that three authors propelled me forward to become a writer: the first, the Victorian grandfather of detective fiction, Wilkie Collins. His novel, The Woman in White, is still my favorite novel to this day. The second author was the "Queen of Crime" herself-the famous Agatha Christie. Her conundrums featuring the meticulous Hercule Poirot and the village spinster Jane Marple have fascinated and confounded me at the same time.</p><p>The third was none other than Carolyn Keene.</p><p>Yes, her novels were juvenile, but there was something in the character that she created that got a hold on me. It has now transpired from the novels to the award-winning computer games from Her Interactive based off the novels. I own the best majority of 25 games-and the company is still going strong, if not stronger than ever since they released their first game featuring the teenage sleuth back in 1998.</p><p>Because of Carolyn Keene, I fell in love with Nancy Drew.</p><p>And, because of my eccentric American Literature professor, I would have never had the opportunity to meet the woman behind her. Carolyn and I became quick friends. The moment that she discovered that I too was a writer, she wanted me to write something for her.</p><p>I asked if I could use Nancy. She said yes. The rest, dear reader, is history. Here, for the first time, is a novel written for the adults who grew up with the resourceful girl detective. Here is the beginning of what I hope to be an everlasting bond between Carolyn Keene, her creation, and myself. Carolyn was kind enough to read the draft and was delighted by it. She has even requested that I contrive more puzzles for Nancy to solve. And, of course, how could I say no? I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy trails, then!</p><p>Ever yours, </p><p>Jonathan Hudson</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE
> 
> July 4, 2013 - River Heights University
> 
> When I first met Carolyn Keene, I had no idea who she was. I had been invited by my American Literature professor to attend a gala event at the main River Heights U. campus celebrating Independence Day. This American Literature professor had just made me endure a whole semester of dissecting stories and looking for this phantom ghost known as the "American Dream." I succeeded but only after coming to full appreciate what he had come to the college to teach. And since it was Independence Day, what better way to see the "American Dream" than it in celebratory action?
> 
> I had no idea that I would bump into a lady, perhaps thirty years my senior, in a pale mauve dress. I came to find out that her name was Carolyn Keene. Needless to say, I was shocked-the Carolyn Keene? The Carolyn Keene who had written over 100 novels featuring a teenage sleuth who I had come to love in my youth? It was her alright. Automatically my fascination grew. I found myself not paying attention to the fireworks but rather to the stories that this woman told. I have come to acknowledge that three authors propelled me forward to become a writer: the first, the Victorian grandfather of detective fiction, Wilkie Collins. His novel, The Woman in White, is still my favorite novel to this day. The second author was the "Queen of Crime" herself-the famous Agatha Christie. Her conundrums featuring the meticulous Hercule Poirot and the village spinster Jane Marple have fascinated and confounded me at the same time.
> 
> The third was none other than Carolyn Keene.
> 
> Yes, her novels were juvenile, but there was something in the character that she created that got a hold on me. It has now transpired from the novels to the award-winning computer games from Her Interactive based off the novels. I own the best majority of 25 games-and the company is still going strong, if not stronger than ever since they released their first game featuring the teenage sleuth back in 1998.
> 
> Because of Carolyn Keene, I fell in love with Nancy Drew.
> 
> And, because of my eccentric American Literature professor, I would have never had the opportunity to meet the woman behind her. Carolyn and I became quick friends. The moment that she discovered that I too was a writer, she wanted me to write something for her.
> 
> I asked if I could use Nancy. She said yes. The rest, dear reader, is history. Here, for the first time, is a novel written for the adults who grew up with the resourceful girl detective. Here is the beginning of what I hope to be an everlasting bond between Carolyn Keene, her creation, and myself. Carolyn was kind enough to read the draft and was delighted by it. She has even requested that I contrive more puzzles for Nancy to solve. And, of course, how could I say no? I hope you enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy trails, then!
> 
> Ever yours, 
> 
> Jonathan Hudson

The door-bell jingled behind Florence Havisham as she was about to place an unfamiliar eggshell blue envelope into a tiny pigeon-hole. There were others like it, stacked side to side and on top, up to three levels. Her gentle hand paused in mid-action as her ears perked up at the noise. Already, a frustration showed on her aquiline features. She wanted to turn her head to look at the clock above the front entrance. But, in doing so, she would have to confront whoever had just entered the office.

What time was it anyway? she thought. It can't be seven already-I have too much to do still. Another thought soon came to her: she had forgotten to lock the front entrance after her arrival at six that morning.

That was stupid of me, she almost said out loud. In its place, a sigh. Only a split second had passed since the bell jingled. By now, only a ghost of an jingle's echo resonated in the air, a one-note masterpiece that the late Mr. Havisham had set up years ago. With a wry frown, at both the memory and now this, Florence tried to place the envelope down. Besides, its address was a bit of a conundrum at the moment and she had been having a difficult time putting it in its appropriate place. It would have to wait...

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we're not open yet," she said in a secretarial matter-of-fact type of way. She still had her back to the stranger. Resolved, and placing the blue envelope on the counter-space underneath the pigeon-hole boxes, Florence straightened up and flattened up the creases in her plaid dress. After being fashionably satisfied with herself, she promptly turned around to greet the stranger more directly. She had been expecting the usual "early bird" customer-but what met her eyes instead made her take an involuntary step back, subtle and barely noticeable.

The man before her was shabbily dressed in an ill-fitting brown coat, a ragged and moth-eaten scarf, and slouching trousers. He wore a yellowed-white shirt underneath the brown coat, with the shirtsleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. The clothes were ill-fitting not because they were made for someone bigger, but rather for someone smaller. Florence could not see the face clearly since he stood just before the door, the face being masked in the shadow. He stood quite still, tall, and erect with determined broad-shoulders. There was something quite militaristic about him. Neither one spoke for a moment. Florence was tempted to step around the counter had not the stranger simply stepped forward out of the shadows.

Who are you? thought Florence as she gazed at the face. It was a young man with rugged facial features. His hair was disheveled and his eyes hopeful. The young man appeared older with his rust-colored five o'clock shadow, the same color as that wild hair. Something about the shape of the face, its arrangement, its story being etched into the glittering eyes made Florence wonder. There was a wild frontier handsomeness in him. Florence looked further-for a young man, he was well-built, athletic-looking, and aged somewhat prematurely for some reason.

So that was it! The specks of gray and white hairs interspersed in the beard and hair finally caught her attention. Something, she could tell, was weighing down upon him.

"I do apologize, ma'am, but-it's just...well..." For the first time, Florence noticed the baseball cap held in his callous hands. By wringing it, it was soon apparent that the young man was nervous. Nervous of what though? He looked down for a couple of seconds and then tried again.

"The door was unlocked, you see. I thought you had perhaps opened earlier."

Florence attempted to smile but did not have a convenient mirror at hand to see if she had succeeded. His voice was sharp, insinuatingly educated, and secretly melodious. Her interest in this man piqued.

"It's quite alright-I just forgot to lock it up after I got here earlier to get the store ready for the day-but," Florence eyed the clock above the door and noted that it was quarter til seven, "now that you're here, how can I help you?" She folded her hands before her as a hostess would at a party. Now she could tell she was smiling. The young man stood ever so still that a worry began to form way back in the recesses of Florence's mind. Something wasn't right, she pondered.

The young man seemed to snap out of a trance, gulped, and took another liberal step forward, wringing the baseball cap as he did so. His eyes were nervous but determined about their course. He was a bit uncertain about himself but, at the last second, had pulled himself together to make a bold move.

"Do...?" he began shakily. Another gulp, another intake of breath. With a slight tremor in his nervous voice, the young man asked a question that caused Florence to give out a shocked "Oh!"

"Do...do you know me?" It wasn't the question he asked but in the way he asked it that hit Florence's heart. There, she realized that the young man was sincere-and all-too serious. A bit too much so for her taste. The young man recognized Florence's puzzled expression and stopped wringing the baseball cap. His mouth stood agape as his brow furrowed out of perplexity. The tremor had spread from his voice to his left hand, his only free hand. It was shaking ever so slightly. With its onset, the worry at the back of Florence's mind began to grow.

She attempted to alleviate the ever-increasing tension by answering the young man's question, a task that was all that much easier since she could be completely honest. She could feel her curiosity itching for more.

"Sorry. I don't recognize you..." Florence paused to take in the young man's reaction-he gave none. "Should I? Did I ever meet you?" she asked nonchalantly. Another quick pause as she waited for her question to sink in. The young man started to wring his baseball cap again-but this time, it was different. Before, he had done it out of a nervous tension-now it seemed to be expelling a frustrated tension from within.

The clock above the entrance now read ten til seven. In ten minutes, Florence would have to go flip the sign to say OPEN. As of now, the sign, with both OPEN and CLOSED spelled out in nostalgic cursive, hung on a door-nail above the door-window. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The clock sounded in her head. What are you doing Florrie? You shouldn't be talking. You shouldn't listen to this strange--

"No-at least," the young man mirrored her puzzled expression. "I don't think we have...do-do you mind telling me where I am?" It was at that moment that the worry in Florence's mind fully realized itself. This is a joke. It has to be. Everyone knows where they are.

"That's not always true," Florence said out loud and immediately regretted doing so.

"Excuse me?" was the puzzled stranger's response.

"Oh--where are you? I'm sorry, I was thinking to myself. You're in Mecklenburg, Mr.-?" The last part was meant to act as a prompt for a name-but it was a prompt without result. In fact, it only seemed to have agitated the young man even more.

"Do you know it?" he asked rather suddenly.

"I don't think I understand--"

"Because that's just it," the young man started and let the baseball cap fall to the floor.

"I don't know my name."


	2. Chapter 2

At about seven o'clock in the morning, the sun's rays had not yet reached the park-bench by the children's playground. It still laid in a dusky shadow that inspired creative imaginations. This was how the person, who sat comfortably on the park-bench, liked it. All the merrier, he thought when it came down to covert cooperation. He could use all the help he could get. Already at the man's feet were the pigeons who explicitly got up from their cumbersome nests to feed on the charitable bread crumbs, scattering from the man's all-too eager hand.

The pigeons cooed and the man hummed a lively tune. He didn't know where he had heard the tune but if he was humming it, he must have liked it. Then again, it was all too likely he had composed it himself with the orchestra of his mind. Must come with gifted musicians, he thought as he dipped his hand into a Ziploc plastic bag, grabbed a generous handful of breadcrumbs mixed of different varieties of bread, and scattered them in a graceful motion in front of him. The pigeons went into an excited fluttering frenzy, cooing all the more as more charitable food was dispensed to them.

How can creatures be so simple? the man considered as he gently nudged a pigeon off one of his patent-leather shoes. Now why wouldn't people be more like that? Take away complications, break down life to pure simplicity. Easy to understand--to know--to catch? He continued his humming but with less enthusiasm than before. Why was he in a good mood anyway? Could it have been the news he received only the day before? Perhaps it was that...

Somewhere, in the children's playground, in the general area of the shadows where the swings should be, a sound arose. It was of mulch scraping against a moving body, the feet dragging into the mulch covered in the morning dew.

Or perhaps it was not..  
.  
Smiling to himself, the man closed the Ziploc plastic bag, and placed it in one of his coat-pockets, should he have need of it again. He sat still to listen to the slowly-approaching body. He could sense the movement behind him, getting nearer and nearer. Come to rattle my cage, have we?

"I'm not much of a believer in ghosts," the man decided to say out loud, just for effect. Instantly, the movement behind him came to an abrupt halt. Ah, so it's you then! thought the man. Amused with the prospects, he let out a loud boisterous laugh before continuing.

"But I am rather fond of an early morning haunt-" Turning to face the perpetrator, the man on the park-bench grew more solemn in face and with the words, "isn't that right, Murray?"

"Aye," was the ghostly response he got as an imposing figure stepped forward, out from underneath the trees' shadows. The man on the park-bench, however, didn't seem a bit disposed about him.

"Indeed," he replied back rather flatly and monotonously. Turning to face his kingdom of peasant-like pigeons, the man retrieved the bag of bread crumbs and began to feed them once more. The figure behind him began to move around the bench. Seeing that there was yet space for another person to sit, he took that freedom hastily for granted. Not much could be seen of either of the two as the sunlight was still making its way to that point in the park. Neither one spoke but instead they watched, intrigued at the pantomime performance that the pigeons gave to their superior spectators. When one of them finally decided to break the silence, it was with an authoritative tone of a tyrant. The man turned his head sharply to his newly-arrived companion.

"You took a liberty, Murray. Never-never...have I seen you sit here. Or asked of you to do so, for that matter." The other man, being obliging and fearful, began to get up.

"Do sit down." A snarl formed on the doting pigeon-feeder's face. All evidences of prior charitable features were gone. It was a dark brooding face, belonging to a man who made you look twice, just to be sure...

Seeing the present snarl, the other man obeyed without the slightest inclination to hesitation. Silence once more, then-

"How is the good doctor, Murray?" Murray sat silent as a statue, thinking, attempting to answer the question in a way that would please his superior. For this superior, he though, was not one for allowing you leniency when you made the smallest of mistakes. You got one chance and one chance only. Anything beyond that was pure mercy from God. I can not blow this, Murray thought. He took a short breath and let it out as fast as possible, as if he wanted to get it over with.

"He's-he's entertaining guests." It was a fact and Murray could only hope that his superior would that into consideration, a feat which was rarely done. The other man didn't answer back immediately but rather grabbed another handful of breadcrumbs. He placed his hand out in front of him as the pigeons gathered below it, waiting and expecting eagerly for the food that was to come.

But it didn't come. Instead, the hand floated above them completely motionless and unwilling. With each passing second, anticipation and discontent grew and grew, slowly driving the pigeons mad, flapping and bumping into each other right at the man's feet. Murray was confused: What on earth is he doing? The other man began to smile-the smile was a little too vicious for Murray's taste.

"You must be wondering what a doting old man like me is doing?" (Murray nodded his head but his nod went unawares)-"Well, it's silly actually. It's an experiment, you see. No, really, it is! You see: I've been feeding these same pigeons for weeks now that they now gotten used to it. They now take it for granted that I will be here at about seven in the morning with my little bag of bread crumbs and feed them... Just look at them! See how they behave! Ha ha! It's amusing, it's silly-nevertheless," the older man paused and said darkly, "they're still vermin. And it's pathetic."

Suddenly, he gripped his hand, crushing the bread crumbs which made the pigeons more annoyingly hungrier.

"It's so simple-too simple-to give..." The older man paused with a savory suspense, "...and to take away..." There was a brief moment's silence between the two opposing forces. Murray lingered at the saying. There was some dying undertone in what he had just heard that didn't sit well with him.

The old man continued unabated and without so much as a blush of the cheek.

"They've become dependent-hooked ever so on the opium I readily give them-but take that away..."

It was then that the full meaning of what his superior was saying came to Murray. Yes, he was talking about pigeons--but he was referring to one in particular: Murray. And this withholding of bread-crumbs was two two-fold: one, to prove a point in dependence; two, to act as a warning. Murray began to sweat. What his superior was telling him was that he was on thin ice.

“We have--” the man said with a sickly sweet voice, “--an understanding, then?” Murray’s mind was racing. Where had he messed up? He had checked--double checked--even triple checked--he had checked it for any possible outcome! Where had he gone wrong?

“Yes,” he whispered, disguising his growing fear, “Crystal clear.”

“Good. There, there little ones...” the man got up and threw the crushed breadcrumbs as far as possible from the birds. Instantly a good majority of them took flight after the lost crumbs, fighting amongst themselves in salvaging what they could.

“Today will be my last day here,” prompted the older superior.

It was a sudden declaration, one that even surprised Murray.

“But I presumed you enjoyed feeding the birds?” His superior turned to face Murray. He brushed off some bits of crumbs off his coat as a grave and dark expression appeared to resonate from his face.

“To a point, Murray. But I prefer to play with much bigger game: man, being foremost...”

The good doctor...thought Murray. As his superior began to walk away, he cast away the rest of the bag’s contents into the muddy road.

“Oh--and Murray? You’ve done well in my service. Don’t make this messier than it has to be.” Turning his back on his servant, he said slyly, “Because I have a score to settle with Carson Drew...”

For, as both men well-knew, Murray was only a pawn in the greater scheme of things. A pawn who had made a mistake that he himself was unaware of. Murray was left alone in the park. He vacantly watched some pigeons returning to the bench. From their behavior, Murray could tell that they were confused by the withholding of food. He smiled out of irony. Bending over, he whispered to the birds.

“Don’t worry--I’ve been cut off too.” The question was not how long he had before it happened--but how far he could make it out of the park.

“Well,” he said tragically, ”guess I’ll say my goodbye to you guys.” Murray squinted and stifled a cry. He could not show fear--not now at least. Just hope it will be quick... Murray got up and scattered the pigeons before him. He thought he would be dealt with any second now...

The situation became more tragic to him when he suddenly realized where he had made a mistake. Well, two can play at that game. The doctor wasn’t known as the “good doctor” without its reasons. Any second now...

All Murray heard was a high-pitched swishing sound that went right by his head. A pigeon immediately fell to the ground, dead before it reached it. They had missed... He started to run. He had gotten to his car around the corner just in time. As he frantically opened the driver’s side-door, an envelope fell off the seat and at his feet. An envelope that had never been posted... It was a pale blue color.

On it was a name that had been Murray’s dire mistake:

DAVID NEWCOMBE

“God bless you, wherever you are may be,” he whispered out loud as he quickly grabbed the envelope, ran to the postal box by the side of the road, and slipped the letter inside. Two can play at this game, he thought as he looked around him tensely. He returned to his car and stepped into the driver’s seat...he turned the key in the ignition and looked in the rear-view mirror...

On July 12th, 2013, the quiet and traditional town of Mecklenburg had its first murder case in over twenty years...


	3. Chapter 3

A window? But how could a window be there? There was never a window there! Right before his bed! No--it cannot be--it's in the wrong place. It should be to the side...but there was nothing there. Just more empty space...but it wasn't! Sunlight was pouring in--into where? And why here?

And why does my head ache? Make the pounding stop! STOP!

With that furious exclamation, the young man jumped to a sitting position on the bed. He was sweating. This sudden movement caused his head to swim. He pressed a hand against his pulsating temple. Where was he? What happened? He could only remember snatches of fragmented memories...a burning building...two missing people...a letter...a store that was not yet opened...a question...cold tile floor...and then, nothing.

No, not nothing. I heard a Voice--a sweet voice, a kind Voice, calling out to me.

But I have no name. With that shocking realization, the dream fell apart like sand falling through his trembling hands. He recalled what had transpired before--at, at least, he thought he did. It was all too much of a blur. Where am I? he thought.

The room in which he was in came into clearer perception. It was lightly furnished with a woman’s boudoir in the corner with an oval mirror strategically placed above it. Next to it, between the window and the boudoir, was a bookshelf, with six shelves full to the brim with what looked like a variety of hardcovers, spiral notebooks, manila folders, and the like. There was nothing else beside the bed. But nowhere was something that could have been the Voice. He was so sure by now that at some time, within the hodge-podge mix of dreams and nightmares, someone had spoken into his delirium.  
It was lovely--it was calling out to me...

And it sounded... He pressed his hand again against his temple. Thinking was an ordeal at the moment. But he couldn’t just give up--the answer was there. He could sense it. Amidst the pounding in his head, he completed the thought.

It sounded...familiar. The Voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard it though? He didn’t know why but he got the strangest feeling that it had been fairly recently. The question in his mind soon transformed itself: If it had been recently, then where have you been recently?

A store. He knew instantly that he had been at a store. In the disjointed chain of memories, the next thing he recalled was a smooth floor, cool to the touch, cold enough for him to relax upon and to gently fall back into the surrounding darkness. He had slept so peacefully until the nightmares came...

He had been alone in a wheat-field. He just stood there, blank and inexpressive for a moment. Then the beauty of the wind rustling between the wheat seeped in. It went along the field, causing the wheat to move in waves. The air smelled sweet, fresh, and of the summer. He had always loved the summer--or so he thought. He could only back-up that thought by the way he had felt. It felt right. It felt like home...

The moment he thought of home, a crack of lightning split the wide-open blue sky, landing nearby. The wheat rushed inwardly into the rushing flames. The inferno rose up, cutting down and eating up everything in its path, leaving behind only an expanse of burnt earth. It felt like home. The haunting orange and red flames got nearer and nearer, so near that they licked at the surface of his overcoat. They were getting closer and closer...surrounding him and leaving no way out...  
But he wasn’t thinking about the encroaching flames.

He was thinking of twenty years ago at home...

And he was screaming wildly...

\---------------------------------------------------------------

He never heard the door open--he was shaking too frantically in an attempt to clear the inundating memory. The flames were still burning--and it was just as hot... Raining embers... and the Voice--he heard the Voice! But he couldn't see through this wall of tears. The screaming continued until he felt a gentle hand place on his left shoulder. It slowly applied pressure as a voice became clearer and clearer. Finally, he was able to understand it.

“--it’s alright, John! It’s alright!” She was calling him by name! Who was she? His screaming stalled long enough for him to look past his hands covering his eyes. He saw her face--a sweet calming face, a mother’s face...

And, suddenly, he no longer felt afraid but safe. I’m safe, he thought as he leaned back and placed his head of the soft cool pillow. All he wanted to do was to sleep and to wake up to find that everything was okay...that it had only been a bad nightmare...

“Sleep, now--it’s alright,” she kept saying as he felt a cold compress placed on his forehead. In such caring company, sleep he did...

This time, he dreamt...


	4. Chapter 4

He fell asleep, breathing quietly and peacefully. In the morning light, his rugged features looked even more handsome to the lady-in-waiting. She sat by the sturdy bed as a mother would watch over a sick child. Minutes went by with the only sound being the young man’s quiet breathing. On occasion, the woman would retrieve the compress, dip it into a bowl of iced water that she had nearby at her feet, wring it out a bit, and replace it back on the young man’s forehead. She did this with great care and diligence. When she wasn’t doing this, she was picking off the annoying pieces of lint off her plaid dress. Soon her bedside vigil was interrupted.  
There was a quick succession of knocks on the bedroom door.

“Come in,” the woman replied, loud enough for the person outside the door to hear but yet quiet enough as to not to disturb the sleeping young man. Without a moment’s hesitation, the door was silently opened and a much older man entered the silent bedroom. He was in a white pressed dress shirt, black pants, and black formal evening shoes. He wore glasses that fit perfectly over his wise consoling face. The morning light glinted off his graying hair. He obeyed the woman when she held a finger to her lips.

Be quiet, it said. It was only a few noiseless steps to her side. After coming forward, the older man looked down at the sleeping figure with examining eyes. He looked over the young man’s body and then gently placed two fingers on the young man’s right wrist. It took only a couple of seconds before his mind gave a satisfying diagnosis about the pulse. At least his heart is beating. Quite a strong beat too. He was a healthy young man with no visible problems. Albeit, he may need a bit of cleaning up, but there was nothing that the older man could say that something was wrong. The young man seemed perfectly normal...Save for one thing, of course, the older man thought.

The older man then addressed the woman. He knelt down beside her.

“How’s he doing?” he whispered with every sign of care.

“He’s better now, I think. He must have woken up from some terrible nightmare or other before I came in,” was the stressed response that the woman gave. She looked down at her feet at the bowl nearby, now halfway full with iced water.

“I've been changing the compress every so often--just like you suggested.” The older man smiled. He was content when his directions were eagerly followed. The two were silent for a couple of moments and then the older man had a change of expression. Something was puzzling him. There was something that he wanted to know.

“Dear--just out of curiosity--I have to ask but did I hear you call him John?” The woman turned to look back at the young man.

“Did I?” she questioned, uncertain of herself.

“You did--when you were trying to calm him down. You called him John....Why?” She was still uncertain of the question.

“Why--oh gosh, I have no idea. It was the first thing that came to mind. I think I was rather inclined to call him that because I was considering just how much of a John Doe he is.”

That actually sounds logical, the older man thought. We don’t know his name, where he’s come from, what he was doing here, and why he is the way he is--he is as much of a John Doe as the other. The two sat in silence for a little bit longer. They sat there listening to the rise and fall of the young man’s breath. He do not stir but dreamt so still that he looked happy and at peace for once. Not wanting to make a premature full diagnosis, the older man considered that perhaps it would be best if the both of them left the room quietly, allowing the young man to have the room to himself. He nudged the woman to get her attention, nodded towards the closed door, and got up from his squatting position. She nodded back in agreement and retrieved the bowl of iced water from the floor.

Both of them walked out of the bedroom, the older man closing the door quietly behind them. The two were now in a hallway with several doors leading off of it. The door that they had just walked through was at the very end of the hallway. On the other side, directly parallel to that door, were the stairs going down to the first floor of the building. Both walked down the hall, down the stairs, and unto the landing that soon became the foyer. Before them was a dark brown door that was the front-door. To their right led to the living-room, the study, the patio, and a guest bedroom. To their left led to the kitchen, the pantry, the laundry-room, the garage, and the backyard.

“I think I’ll get a new bowl read,” the woman said as she stepped off the stairs and headed to the left. “Shall I get something to drink?” she asked from the kitchen as the older man heard her turn on the faucet at the sink.

“No, dear--we’ll be fine. We already have drinks in there.”

“Then I’ll just bring in something to eat then. That young girl probably hasn’t eaten yet.” How very sweet of her, the older man thought as he turned to the right, entering the living-room. He had guests.


End file.
